


Olympus

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:51:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Steven Gerrard crosses the gates of Melwood and is transformed into Zeus, with Anfield and Melwood as his Olympus. Carra is his faithful brother, ruling alongside him, voice earth-shatteringly loud across the pitch, like the waves crashing against the shore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a piece that compares each of the Liverpool players to the classic Greek gods. 
> 
> Also, I wrote this a couple of months ago and couldn’t really let go of some of these players, some of whom have since moved on to other clubs or retired. Forgive me my sentimentality, if you would.

Steven Gerrard crosses the gates of Melwood and is transformed into Zeus, with Anfield and Melwood as his Olympus. He hits long passes like lightning bolts, and his is the hand that rules this hallowed ground, regardless of whatever Titan claims to rule him. He maintains order amongst his teammates, who come from different nations, wear skins of different colors and pray to different gods, but are united in their sworn loyalty to him.

When disorder breaks out, as it must when Gods collide, immovable wills meeting like glaciers scraping heavy against the face of the earth, it is Steven’s word that decides the outcome. Whosoever he chooses to support emerges triumphant, and whosever he reprimands repents immediately and without hesitation. There are few captains who are as beloved as Steven Gerrard. Yet the weight of responsibility lies heavy across strong shoulders, and some days he rises from bed and feels himself to be in Atlas’ stead, wearing the sky across his shoulders like an iron cloak. And it is on those days he feels himself to be older than Zeus, older than Gaia, older than the universe itself.

And yet still, despite his age, despite the years and the miles in his legs, he finds it in himself to love. There are many he’s loved over the years—brilliant mortal men with the strength of Perseus and the beauty of Adonis. They have the lean, cut muscles of Hercules, and the fighting spirit of Theseus. He tries to resist, knows with a tired wisdom that falling to temptation has never ended well, but he falls nonetheless. He loves them, with a love that burns bright and fast, and then, in the blink of an immortal eye, they are gone, like flames lost to  the windswept night. They live on in his memories, though, and their stories become legend for having been entwined with his. At the end of it all, he alone is left standing, after they have all gone, the weight of his gaze heavy and eternal as he looks out at the stands.

 

Carra is his faithful brother, ruling alongside him, voice earth-shatteringly loud across the pitch, like the waves crashing against the shore. When Steven is calm and crackling with electricity, Carra rages and storms, reigning over the defense as though wielding a trident. When Steven is angry, however, when the touch of his very skin burns painfully, Carra is placid, calming his captain with as little as a touch, his cool fingers pressing against scorching skin.

While Steven rules all of Anfield, and the ground of Melwood answers his every command, Carra is his elder and his equal. There is only one person over whom Steven feels no burden of responsibility, and it is Carra who holds him when he trembles in fear, strong and steadfast like sun-warmed waves rocking a tired sailor to sleep. Most of the earth is not land, after all, but rather sea and sky alone, mirroring each other, the air sweeping gently across the water. So it is with Liverpool, too, with Carra and Stevie alone remaining, unwavering across the decades.

 

Luisito is Hades, powerful and misunderstood, carrying with him an undercurrent of darkness that rings even in the sound of his laughter. He is capable of incredible things, and there is magic in the way he maneuvers with the ball at his feet, defenders left behind, confused and still, like the dead after a war.

Still, he loves powerfully, and Sofia is his Persephone, a love so strong it drives the seasons, yanking the crops back into the ground and pulling snowfall from the skies. A love so strong it pulls him to Barcelona, away from the people who love him. Still, for all his flaws, Stevie loves him like a brother. The team suffers without him. Death is a natural part of life, after all, and his refusal to continue throws the world into a strange peculiar chaos from which Steven suspects it will take years to recover.  

 

Lucas is Hera, always concerned with maintaining harmony amongst the team, keeping the family ties healthy and strong. When he notices two of his boys arguing, or a player struggling with his confidence or the fans giving someone a little too much stick, he mediates the conflict, rebuilds the confidence of each boy, as a father would, and so, he is loved and adored by his teammates, as a father should be.

When Steven leaves, he entrusts the kingdom to Jordan, his Heracles, but it is Lucas who updates him on how the boys cope with his absence. It is Lucas who is left to ensure everyone’s health. It is he who can look at a man and see his foundation, he who can look and see the words that are needed and the voice in which they need to be spoken.

 

And while Jordan may have risen, strong and mighty, to reign over Olympus, it is Lucas who takes care of him. It is a humble picture, the two blond heads bent near each other, conferring in hushed whispers, as a hand rubs a back in comfort. In the space of a minute, the image is wiped away like the shifting of sand in the desert, and Jordan again looms large, armband on his bicep like a shackle. Still, Lucas is close behind, rendered small by Jordan’s aura of leadership, but always watching, always observant, and he looms large in Jordan’s eyes, at least.

 

Martin Skrtel is Ares, and it is tempting to simplify him into a man built only to fight. His face is drawn and falls naturally into a snarl. But only those who love can fight as he does, utterly and wholeheartedly. He fights, after all, only to defend—to defend his goal, his teammates, his family, and club and country alike. War does not bring him pleasure, but it is a burden someone must carry, and he refuses to shirk his responsibilities, and there is a fierce, proud joy in a perfectly timed tackle, in the thrill of winning a header.

He deals in justice too, and the hardest tackles are reserved for those who have wronged a teammate. When Lucas was smashed by Chelsea’s Diego Costa, perfect nose made crooked, with blood streaming down his face, Martin was ruthless. By the end of that match, Costa knew only two things—the feel of flesh hitting marble, for that was what Martin was, it seemed, and the feel of grass sliding against his skin as he unwittingly bent to meet it again and again, in some farce of worship.

 

Philippe Coutinho is Hephaestus. He is small of stature, but intricate in his work. He weaves through defenders more beautifully than Arachne at her loom. He is technically superb, highly skilled at what he does. His football is art. Splendid watercolor paintings lose their beauty before him as he dances across the horizon with the ball at his feet. It goes further than that though—the fire that warmed Hephaestus’ smithy runs through his very blood, and never has he shied away from a fight, regardless of his opponent’s size or strength. Small he may be, but his courage is beyond question.

 

Mamadou Sakho is Eros. He loves quickly and passionately. He is generous with his affection for his teammates, bestowing casual kisses and tight embraces as rewards for excellent performances, without any expectation of being loved in return. He is defiantly brave in that respect, giving of himself freely to a club that will, in time, move on. Yet, the power of love is fearsome in its own right, and those that would oppose Mama’s team learn that love is not always kind, and is almost never tame. It is fierce, with teeth made for snarling protectively. Love ought to be feared as much as it is revered, for it brings with it joy and pain in equal measure, and so Sakho is Eros. If there is one thing to be fought for, it is love, and this is why Martin and Mama understand each other so well, and why they work together, like two sides of the same coin.  

 

Alberto Moreno is Apollo, Zeus’ favorite son. His smile shines bright, the sun peeking out playfully from behind a cloud. His dog pulls him along on their daily walks, like horses leading a golden chariot. His every word, his every action is warm. His laughter makes the grass grow greener. His light shines through him. Sometimes, though, he burns too hot, and like Icarus, melts the wax from his own wings, falling, falling, falling, only to be caught by his teammates and lifted back to his rightful throne in the sky.

His anger burns hot, too, and when he is wronged on the pitch, he lets no man claim mastery over him. More often, though, his anger is righteous, on behalf of beloved teammates or those with less power and fortune. Yet he does not use violence to earn vengeance, instead using his intelligence to thread in crosses. When they are inevitably headed into the back of the net, he wears a meaningful smile that he aims like an arrow at his opponent. Each Saturday, he goes to Alder Hey hospital to spin sunshine and sing Spanish lullabies to children whose lives are dark beneath unending storms.

 

Joe Allen is Athena. He sees beyond emotions, keeps a clear head. When he is wronged, his vengeance is not tainted by anger. Rather, ice runs in his veins, and often the offender does not know he’s been had until after it happens, and even then, he does not know whose hand it was that wrought his ruination. Jordan once made the mistake of pranking him. Joe, in a masterstroke that was discussed in awed whispers for years later, set a series of small, easily-detectable traps. Jordan found them and disabled them, as expected. And then, one night when his guard was down, he went to bed and woke in the middle of a Melwood training pitch completely naked. He did not prank Joe again.

Joe reveres few things more than the pursuit of knowledge. He’s a Ravenclaw through and through, and when he comes home from training, nothing soothes him quite like doing some reading. He reads the papers every morning, watches the news every evening, and listens to history podcasts while driving and while he’s on the treadmill. (He tried to get history podcasts into the pre-match playlist once, but he was rejected. Heathens, he’d thought to himself derisively, before silently agreeing that as riveting as the Battle of Vienna was, it may not have revved the boys up quite so much as Drake.) He studies for his psychology degree when he has a free moment, hoarding knowledge like a squirrel frantically storing acorns for the winter.

 

Adam is Hestia, goddess of the hearth. The kitchen is the heart of his home. It’s where his kids do their homework. It’s where they all eat breakfast together, before training and work and school get in the way. It’s where he bakes. It’s something he does alone at first, headphones in his ears. He hums along as he mixes flour and sugar and butter together, forgoing measuring cups for intuition. He brings chocolate chip cookies to his first day of training, and he guesses well, for the way to the heart of a footballer truly is through the stomach. They all have to run two extra laps, but it is unanimously agreed to be completely worth it.

Now though, he bakes with other people. Sometimes, it’s his kids, when Arthur has to bring snacks for the class, or when Alexa has a birthday party. Sometimes, it’s with his teammates, when Danny Ings gets quiet and depressed after his injury, when Jordan hurts his heel, when Divock gets that bad tackle against Everton, when Emre’s ankle goes, when Jordan pulls his hamstring… It’s cakes, cookies, pies, brownies, tarts… Phil advocates strongly for a selection of Brazilian desserts, and Aine is such a great teacher Ads picks them up after just a couple of Saturdays spent in the Coutinhos’ kitchen, with a whisk in one hand and a notepad in the other, pen in his mouth as he tries to take notes while listening and watching and beating eggs all at the same time.

 

James Milner is Metis, mother of wisdom and deep thought. In Stevie’s absence, James steps up, generously offers up advice. Experience is a harsh teacher, but a good one, and James has learned his lessons well. He hopes his teammates can learn them a softer way, and he does  his best to help. He has played this game for a long time now, and he sees it differently than the young boys, can almost see the gaps opening up before they actually do. He can sense which way a player will move to defend a corner, can predict which player will mark which teammate, and he uses a combination of skill and intuition to gauge which pass to play to get the ball into the back of the net.

When Steven abdicates his throne in favor of letting Jordan rule, it is James, along with Lucas, who takes care of him. The same patterns repeat, like a tessellation, and James picks Jordan up in much the same way that Carra had picked up their Captain when he had finally succumbed to that tempting human weakness, as vice-captains have done since the birth of football and would do until its demise.

 

Daniel Sturridge is their Artemis. He is cooler than the moonlight. Yet it is he that holds the power to pull the sea close, to tempt it with the promise of an embrace, only to shove it away again. He is loyal to his companions, even those that fall away from the team. His marksmanship is second to none, finding goals with a touch that would seem divine if the viewer ignored the sweat dripping down his brow, effortless to the watcher unaware of the hours of training, the carefully honed diet, the hours of prayer and meditation and visualization and raw, brutal hoping.

Peace is rare in this job, with the press searching for new stories like hounds for a scent. So sometimes Daniel walks in the woods, listens to the sounds of the birds singing, the crunch and crackle of leaves beneath his feet, the chirping of the frogs as the sun prepares to move on, to shed its light elsewhere. It is here that he finds his brief moments of tranquility.

 

 

Yet men come and men go, some staying longer than others. Olympus is the only thing that refuses to change, its red staying strong until Stevie suspects that Gaia planted it herself. The faces in the seats are different, they grow older and bring children who will bring their own young ones one day.

_–Some of them don’t get older, actually. The ninety-six that fell on that awful day, threads cut short by the Fates’ cruel rage, are instantly admitted into the soul of Olympus, and for decades the weary devotees pray for justice for their fallen comrades, martyrs through harsh circumstance, but faithful by choice. When it is finally granted, even Justice is not blind—even she wipes an errant tear from unseeing eyes._

And the voices, they are the same across time, full of passion, singing the same hymns they have always sung, men and women come to worship at the feet of the gods. This ground is hallowed, these worshippers the most loyal and devoted in any of the worlds. The voices sound like thunder, desolate without the brilliant strike of lightning, and so Steven takes a step back onto familiar grass, breathing in the sweet veneration offered up to him by the sweet chorus of the blessed faithful.


End file.
